


complex like math smooth like jazz

by fabricdragon



Series: ABO shuffle [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Jim Moriarty, Alpha/Omega, Conversations, Flirting, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jazz - Freeform, M/M, Mathematics, Omega Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 11:00:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11439471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/pseuds/fabricdragon
Summary: a reversal of  the proposal in Perfect Drug: what if Mycroft was the Omega, and Jim the Alpha.Assumes a world in which Alphas and Omegas are very rare.THIS story  can stand alone, although it is part one of the series.





	complex like math smooth like jazz

Mycroft came down to interrogation again.  To an outsider he looked as he always looked, but he was distressed and headachy– Moriarty was able to get under his skin almost as badly as his brother. They hadn’t been able to get a thing from him and “all” he wanted was to talk to Mycroft about Sherlock…

Moriarty rolled his head back in the chair without opening his eyes, “Hello Mister Holmes… how kind of you to visit.”

“You look unwell, James,” He deliberately used the more intimate address to try to throw him off, “perhaps I should come back another time?”

 “I’m not going to look any better while I’m here… Mycroft.” He almost caressed the name– Mycroft shuddered, that had been a mistake, stripping away that last vestige of formality. “You know what I want.”

“You know I don’t want to give it to you.”

“… but you will, Mycroft,” he smiled.

*

They gave him one more day and then he was told in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t do it, someone would go in with a file and give him everything they had on Sherlock whether Mycroft liked it or not. He admitted defeat, but this way he could at least control the conversation.

He turned off the recordings and the cameras, pulled himself together and went back to Moriarty.

“Decided to come to tea?” Moriarty laughed and indicated the plastic bottle of water in front of him.  They’d left one hand unchained.

“You win.”

“I always win, darling,” Moriarty smiled, and the blood between his teeth was unsettling. “Want to get rid of this drugged water and get some real tea?”

Mycroft sighed, took the bottle and came back with two cups and a thermos. He poured for them both.

Moriarty’s eyes were fevered as he sipped his tea, “Oh that’s… that’s niiice…” he looked curiously up at Mycroft, “Have you ever considered being kind, Mycroft?”

“What?”

“Kind? It’s a word… you catch more flies with honey, you know.”

“You’re not a fly.”

“No, I’m the spider.”

Mycroft found himself  worried about the waxy sheen to his skin, the fevered eyes…  he got up and walked over behind Moriarty– Moriarty just closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

“You look feverish.”

“I feel feverish.  Why don’t you call me James anymore, don’t you like me?”

Mycroft touched the man’s forehead– he was in fact far too warm–“No, I don’t like you.”

“A pity,” Moriarty’s hand came up and grabbed Mycroft’s wrist, “You’re growing on me, you know, Mycroft.”

Mycroft tried to pull his hand away and found he couldn’t.  Psychopaths are often deceptively strong– apparently that was true in his case as well. Moriarty slowly brought Mycroft’s hand to his mouth, and Mycroft put his other hand carefully on the one weapon he brought in with him, but instead of biting him Moriarty started… kissing Mycroft’s fingers.

Mycroft shuddered in revulsion– _please let it be revulsion_ – and tried to pull his hand away again.  Moriarty started sucking on one of his fingers, making a production of it, making a seduction of it.

“DO stop that.” Mycroft cursed himself for not being entirely able to keep any tremor out of his voice.

Moriarty stopped but didn’t let go of his wrist, “Why Mycroft… is the Iceman finally melting?”

“Go back to calling me Mister Holmes; besides, you wanted to talk about my brother.”

“Myyyycroft…” he almost sang it, “but we were becoming such FRIENDS…” he brought his lips down on the pulse in Mycroft’s wrist and licked.

Mycroft cursed himself for being in the room at all as he felt his knees weaken slightly… he pulled himself together and glanced at Moriarty’s face in the mirror.

Moriarty was frozen in place, eyes wide, lips parted: he looked– Mycroft couldn’t tell if he was stunned, horrified, or delighted, but there was no question that his expression was REAL, as opposed to his usual expressions.

Moriarty slowly released Mycroft’s wrist and closed his eyes. Mycroft retreated back to his chair opposite him and sat back down.

Moriarty had the blankest, most controlled expression on his face… “Tell me Mister Holmes, are the recordings off?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “Thank you for going back to formality, and yes, they are.”

“You asked. I’d do anything you asked, Mister Holmes.”

Mycroft snorted, “Hardly! I want the plans and you won’t give them to us.”

“Ahhh… but that’s it, isn’t it?” he held out his cup for more tea, “I hardly consider beatings, sleep deprivation and so on to be ASKING, Mister Holmes– it’s poor hospitality, if nothing else.”

Mycroft poured his tea and wondered what was going on now.  He seemed so much more serious– it was just another game, of course.  Moriarty was keeping his eyes lowered for a change.  Mycroft wasn’t certain what to think of it.

“So if we asked–”

“No.  Not if ‘we’ asked, Mister Holmes: if YOU asked.” Moriarty looked back up at him and his eyes…. His eyes were terrifyingly hungry… “I said I’d do anything you asked– not your superiors, or the Prime Minister, or Lady Smallwood… you.”

Mycroft laughed, albeit a bit nervously. “I came down to give you what you wanted, Moriarty–”

“Oh, do please call me James, or Jim if you prefer.”

“I despise nicknames.”

“Now see? That’s better: now I know something about you– you despise nicknames. What’s your favorite equation?”

“What?” Mycroft found himself blinking in confusion– dealing with Moriarty always left him feeling so unsettled.

“Asking you your favorite color would be boooring, besides it’s green: what’s your favorite equation?”

Mycroft felt his temper suddenly getting the better of him and he snapped out “Lyapunov's second method for stability.”

Moriarty looked at him again, and those hungry eyes tracked over him before settling on looking him right in the eyes for the first time. 

 _He never did look you in the eyes for long_ , Mycroft realized, hiding behind sunglasses or looking down or away,  or in the mirror, or past your shoulder– he was looking into Mycroft’s eyes and it was the most unsettling and… he realized he’d been lost for some amount of time only when Moriarty looked way.  Mycroft shivered violently and clutched at his tea cup for support.

“Really? Well I suppose it makes sense you would be interested in dynamic systems, but I thought the Margulis conjecture…”

Mycroft almost couldn’t breathe, “What… what would a common criminal know about”

“I’m an UNcommon criminal, darling, and I have a degree in mathematics… among other things.” He smiled over the tea cup, “I had no idea we were so… compatible.”

“We aren’t.” He must have recognized how unsettled this was making him, that’s why he’s doing it.

“Oh I think we are, Mister Holmes,”  he paused, “The Collatz problem.”

Mycroft blinked, “You… actually studied mathematics?”

“Yes.”

“I went to Oxford for political studies, but I minored…”

“Your mother’s textbook is quite good.”

Mycroft stiffened, “Leave her out–”

“I’m not going to cause her any problems, Mister Holmes,” Moriarty reached a hand across the table and took his wrist again, but oh so gently, “I’ve simply read her book– it was lovely, although I prefer her paper on The Hadamard conjecture.”

Mycroft didn’t try to pull his wrist away, “You’ve… actually read that?”

“Yes.” Moriarty pulled Mycroft’s hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles gently, like a whisper. “I had no idea you were interested in  the topic, Mister Holmes.”

“That’s… more information on you than we had… why tell me?”

“I admit,” he said setting Mycroft’s hand back down on the table, “I was blinded by my interest in your brother– I hadn’t realized I should have been paying attention to you…” he smiled up at him, but there was still something dark, and attractive about it, “There’s a jazz performance that should be in a week, if I have not entirely lost track of the time, I’ll take you.”

“I prefer classical.”

“No, you LIKE classical, so do I, but with that being your favorite theorem?  Jaazzzzz….” He made it sound filthy.

“You think you’ll be out of here in a week?”

“I think I’ll be out of here tonight, Mister Holmes.” He started to stretch and looked annoyed at the cuff on his other wrist. “You actually turned off all the recordings? Why?”

“You wanted information on my brother: I don’t want anyone else having it.”

“Fair enough,” He tilted his head and looked up at him with slanted eyes– Mycroft couldn’t quite understand how he managed to be so threatening– _and attractive, damn it_ – while chained and beaten. “I’m not interested in Sherlock anymore, Mister Holmes; you’re much more… interesting.”

 _That… was true?_ “Why?” Mycroft asked, his voice going more than slightly dry. What could cause such a switch in his interest?

“I admit I hadn’t thought of you having such an interest in mathematics… and you always seemed so…dull.” He chuckled, “it’s a good disguise.”

“What makes me suddenly not dull?”

“Unlock me? Please?”

“What? Why?”

“Because I asked you nicely.” He looked sadly at his empty tea cup and put it down.

“I want the codes.”

“Ask ME nicely.”

“I would like the codes, which we have been–”

“Ah-ah, Mister Holmes, YOU… not we.”

Mycroft took a deep breath, and for some reason he swayed in his seat and started to fall.  He distantly heard a snapping noise and someone caught him and carefully held him up.  Mycroft tried to get his head to stop spinning…

“Where are your medicines, Mister Holmes?”

“What?”

“Mycrooooffft…. Do you keep your medicine in your office?”

“Yes? But I don’t get dizzy… I don’t have medicine for that, just headaches… and other things.”

“You are very tall,” Moriarty said as he helped him to the door, “I hadn’t realized that you are actually taller than Sherlock.”

“By an inch…” Mycroft answered, then, “Am I hallucinating?”

“While it’s always possible, I don’t think so, why?”

“You’re loose, and helping me walk to my office.”

“That’s not a hallucination; that’s being polite.”

“You’re not polite!”

“I can be…”

Mycroft’s world kept spinning and he was starting to feel feverish. “I think I may have caught your fever, James…”

“Thank you for calling me James, may I call you Mycroft?’

“Yes…”

“I think you may be right, Mycroft.”

James put him down on his sofa and he heard doors open.  After a while James held him up to drink and pressed a glass to his lips. A pill was put on his tongue and he was given more water.

“You should have the emergency suppressant shot in your office, Mycroft, but I can’t find it.”

“The what?”

“The emergency suppressant shot… the one that takes you out of heat instantly– the side effects are horrible, I know, but I can’t find it.”

Mycroft felt his blood freeze in his veins.  He’d always thought that was a rather ridiculous metaphor but now he knew better… “I don’t have one.”

“Tch…” James left.  After a while James came back, with a wheelchair and put him in it. “I’d carry you, Mycroft but I’m not in very good shape right now.”

 _I’m being kidnapped. I’ll be sold… they’ll use this to control me, whoever buys me…_ “If you have any decency you’ll cut my throat.”

“What?!”

“Were you planning on selling me or keeping me prisoner? I don’t know how you figured it out, or even know about Omega suppressants… Oh… criminal contacts, of course…”

A gentle hand brushed his hair back. “No, Mycroft, I’m just taking you to medical for a tranquilizer. I had to use your computer to clear the floor: by the time you wake up the pill should have done its work.”

He felt his jacket being taken off, and his vest, and his shirt.  He opened his eyes to see James, in a guard’s uniform, readying a shot.

He’d been chained wrist and both ankles to the chair…“How did you get loose?”

“Poor darling, you must be out of it not to realize… you’ll feel better in the morning.”

He sank down in the comfortable dark, somehow not feeling at all worried.

*

Mycroft woke up on the sofa in his office.  He must have overworked and slept here again, sigh. He’d had the most horrible nightmare of his life, and it didn’t even seem that frightening somehow– that may have been the worst part, the feeling like he should just… go along with his utter destruction.

 _Moriarty finding out he was an Omega_ , Mycroft shuddered, assuming he even knew what it meant.  He probably would, there were specialty kidnappers and slave traders and he probably dealt with them.

He’d at least stripped to his undershirt:  his pants would look horrible but he would be behind his desk.

He went to the folded pile of… clothes… and… time slowed.

_That’s not how I fold my shirts._

His mouth went dry and he walked over to the chair his jacket was draped over.  Mycroft always   folded things a specific way if he slept in his office… this wasn’t it.  His phone wasn’t where it should be…

He looked over at his desk. His phone was on his desk; plugged in to its charger… his computer was on… his carefully hidden bottle of suppressants was sitting next to his phone.

Mycroft started trembling and he couldn’t stop.

He went and sat down at his desk: the computer was open to an unsaved document:

 

_My dear Mister Holmes,_

_The codes you asked for are on your desktop in a file, along with the information about the plane– basically everything you asked for._

_All you had to do was ask._

_I gave you a pill last night, or it may have been very early this morning, and a tranquilizer shot: I advise you to shower the smell of me off of you, since that’s unquestionably what did it.  Do get the emergency shot and keep one with you and in your office: this could have gone very badly if it wasn’t me._

_I always was attracted to brilliance._

_Your Sherlock has lost my interest, Mycroft, but you definitely have it._

_James Moriarty_

 

Below his sign off was a date four days away, a time, and an address– it was in a theater and entertainment district, a bit out of the way…

_Jazz… he’d invited me to a jazz performance…._

 

Mycroft deleted it and erased the backups, trying to make his brain work.  There was a file on his computer desktop and when he opened it, it had everything… more than they had hoped for.

Mycroft slowly got dressed and dropped into his mind palace, going over what he remembered– it got a bit hallucinatory and fragmented toward the end, but it was enough.

Only someone willing to shatter their own wrists and ankles could have BROKEN the cuffs holding James– Moriarty– to the chair… unless they were an Alpha.

If James was an Alpha… his touching Mycroft, licking him, his scent in the air, would have been enough to over-ride his suppressants.  They were so rare; he’d never thought that…

Of course they’d never tested him: an Alpha would have simply broken loose, snapped their necks… unless he had the control to  laugh and let them interrogate him until Mycroft had to give in– give him Sherlock…

He’d realized I was an Omega when he’d licked my wrist, tasted the first flushes of hormones on my skin, in my blood…

Mycroft stared blankly at the computer. 

He could have done anything– he’d given him a suppressant, a tranquilizer, and tucked him into bed…

…

… And invited him to jazz…

 


End file.
